


5 times Peter Parker is too depressed to function + 1 time he gets help

by kianisabitch



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Bullying, Depression, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-11-18 14:55:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18122573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kianisabitch/pseuds/kianisabitch
Summary: TW: Read the tags before you read the summary-If Peter was a comic book character, he would be permanently drawn with a black eye and baggy sweatshirt covering his tiny frame. He wouldn’t have any cool superpowers, or save anyone from crime. He would have tears running down his face and anxiety attacks and depressive episodes that lasted weeks on end and dead parents and therapy sessions from the PTSD he had from being sexually abused as a young child.ORPeter is stuck in a constant cycle of depressive episodes and is unsure of how to handle it.





	1. out of order bathroom

**Author's Note:**

> Read the tags for a TW
> 
> This is WIP so tags will be added as time goes on

The floor of the out of order third floor A wing girls bathroom was so dirty it looked like a dumpster had thrown up all over the cracked tile floor. Fluorescent lights flickered every few seconds and the entire room smelled like stale urine and cheap pot mixing together. 

Peter’s entire body was slotted into the space between where the stall door and wall met, sitting opposite from the toilet. His head was resting on his knee caps, his legs pulled close to his body. He could feel the hammering of his heart deep in his bones and every few seconds when he pulled in a shaky breath, his entire body shook and rattled. 

The boy cringed and scrunched his nose at the sensation of his greasy hair sticking to the back of his neck with layers of caked on sweat and grime. He hated feeling dirty, but his depression had hit him hard in the past few weeks and he hadn’t showered since last Monday. 

It was now Friday nearly two weeks later and Peter looked and smelled as disgusting as he felt. His hair was matted, greasy and sticking up in every direction. His skin had an oily sheen under the fluorescent lights and his face was bumpy and covered in acne. Not to mention that the rumpled sweatshirt he had been wearing for two weeks straight hadn’t been washed in over six months and his fade light wash jeans were ripped at the knee and covered in paint stains from art class. 

Peter truly did want to feel clean. He hated feeling dirty, it made him feel useless. But depression was a nasty cycle and he didn’t have motivation to attempt to fix the cycle. All he wanted to do was sleep. Showering and changing his clothes, and going to class were not on the agenda. 

So here he was sitting on the dirty floor of a public school bathroom without a care in the world that he was missing class. He didn't have energy for class. He didn’t even have energy to breath, or exist. 

When Peter had showed up to school that morning smelling bad and wearing the same clothing once again and Flash had called him a ‘homeless faggot’, he had snapped. Tears ran down his face, as the boy ran down the hallway and hid in the out of order A wing girls bathroom. He wasn’t quite sure how long had passed, but when he heard the bell ring for classes to switch he stayed put in his little alcove in the bathroom. 

Part of him knew that he didn’t need to be locked away in the stall, for this was an out of order bathroom and the chances of somebody stumbling in on his presence was low. But small, hidden places always made the boy feel safe. 

He had spent years ducking under tables or hiding in lockers to avoid bullies screaming their taunts and throwing punches at his face. And before that he had hidden under his bed when Skip Westcott had pressed his large naked body against Peter’s own childish frame. And even before that, Peter had hidden in his closet on the nights where his father would get drunk and scream. He barely remembered the man, but some nights flashes of hiding in dark corners and screaming out in pain would come to him in his sleep. It felt as if his subconscious knew trying to disappear in a small corner was the only way to survive. Becoming invisible was second nature to him because trauma is remembered by the body. It is stored in every flinch and cry of fear. And every time he can’t stand watching a sex scene on television or the way his body turns to run when he sees a classmate in public. 

If Peter was a comic book character, he would be permanently drawn with a black eye and baggy sweatshirt covering his tiny frame. He wouldn’t have any cool superpowers, or save anyone from crime. He would have tears running down his face and anxiety attacks and depressive episodes that lasted weeks on end and dead parents and therapy sessions from the PTSD he had from being sexually abused as a young child. 

People like him only got the bad things. They didn’t get to enjoy life because the world had chewed them up and spit them out and hurt them in every way possible, until they were broken and could no longer survive. 

Peter lifted his head from where it was rested on his knees. He stuck his hand out in front of his face, flexing his fingers and staring at the gleam of his web shooters peeking out from the edge of his sweatshirt. It was surreal to think that he did in fact of superpowers, yet he felt so utterly and completely helpless. He felt like a bug that could be stepped on and squashed at any second. He felt like a victim. He felt weak. 

The bell signaling the end of the period rung. The sound was jarring and so loud, it made the frightened teenager flinch and collide with the stall door. 

Now was the moment the boy had to choose whether he would stay hidden away in the third floor A wing out of order girls bathroom for another period, or get up and go to class. Now was the moment the boy could perpetuate the cycle of demotivation and depression or take the first step towards ending the cycle and working towards taking better care of himself. 

For a second Peter thought he was going to push through, get his ass off the disgusting bathroom floor and back into a classroom. He would talk to Ned or text his Aunt a funny cat meme. Maybe he would buy himself one of the sugar cookies from the cafeteria that was basically raw cookie dough, or listen to his favorite song or finish his painting for art class. He could go on patrol later or even ditch class and go to an art museum or that cosy little coffee shop he loved over on 14th street. He could for once in his life do something, anything that made him feel happy. 

 

But as the seconds ticked by Peter scoffed, dropping his head back into his knees and cringing at the feeling of his greasy hair on his neck. He was too depressed to move from his spot on the floor of the third floor A wing out of order girls bathroom. He was too depressed to end this fucking cycle and too depressed to care that he couldn’t stop. He was in the midst of a train wreck he had no power to stop.


	2. they never stayed long enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is super triggering and deals heavily with self harm. So please please please read read with caution and take care of yourself.

The cuts were now completely healed. Little scabs on the inside of his thighs and his ankles and on his wrists and on the space where his upper arm and shoulder connected. They were everywhere a razor blade could reach when he contorted his body just right. He felt like a canvas to destroy, the razor was the paintbrush and his blood was the paint. 

It was quite ironic that the blood in the bathtub was still wet, it sat pooled together like little scarlet hot springs. While the cuts were merely scabs on his skin, having healed within minutes due to his enhanced healing powers. (Part of Peter wondered if he could cut so deep he would bleed out before the cuts healed). 

When Peter had first cut, he had been 12 (childhood sexual assault survivors have every reason to be depressed thank you very much), they didn’t heal this fast. The blood would drip onto the inside of his size 8-10 jeans, he was tiny for his age, as he walked to the train each morning. He loved the way the denim chaffed, causing more and more pain every second he continued walking. Peter loved the pain. It made him think about Skip less (not that his thoughts were ever free of Skip). Peter saw Skip everywhere. In the smile of the ticket taker at the movie theater and the scar on the janitors hand at school and in the villain on every comic book cover. 

Peter dug the razor into his thigh again, watching the blood pool and drip down his the slope of his pale skin. At first the boy hissed at the pain, but his eyes were wide and he pushed deeper to feel it even more. He needed it to be deeper. To feel it deep in his body and he watch the blood drip bright and red and beautiful. 

He wanted to carve pretty words into his skin. Every insult Flash had ever shot his way (every sweet thing Skip had ever said to him). Because he was equally a ‘faggot’ and a ‘freak’ and ‘beautiful’ and a ‘good little boy’ for keeping his mouth shut. He was all of those things rolled into one. They all made him Peter Parker. They all made him a monster. 

Within minutes, the new cuts had also turned into little scabs on his skin. There was not an inch of his skin without cuts and Peter wondered how it got to this point. How he started idealizing the feeling of pain and the appearance of cuts in his body. In a messed up way, the cuts made him feel beautiful. But he knew they made him look like a crazy person, and an ugly crazy person at that. 

There was a knock at the door and peter dropped the razor blade. It clattered accords expensive tile, spraying blood everywhere. 

“You doing ok in there kid?” Tony’s voice was echoed through the room. “We wanted to start the movie again, but we realized you weren’t there.” 

Peter pulled a sweatshirt over his skinny frame, covering the hundreds of scars all over his body. He shook his head back and forth a few times, trying to clear his mind before speaking. “Ya-a” the first word cracked regardless, “Mr. Stark, I’m doing fine. I promise.”

And with that the boy pushed open the door, flooding his sweater over his hands in order to lessen the chance of the cuts being seen. “Let’s finish this movie.” His smile was fake, but the man seemed not the pick up on it as he helped Peter back to the living room. 

Peter settled onto the couch between Tony and Rhodey, the man and we home for a weekend and Peter couldn’t believe he was willing including Peter in his plans with his best friend. 

Mr. Stark draped his arm over Peter as the movie started to play. The boy knew he should pay attention, the film they were watching wasn’t to he realized for an entire month and it was a big deal that Mr. Stark has got his hands on it through famous people connections, but all he could focus on was how much he wanted to cut. He needed to see the blood. To feel the pain. He was addicted and he needed it more than he needed anything else in this entire world. He needed to cut. He needed to cut. He needed to cut. 

“Hey kid, are you sure you’re ok?” Tony’s voice sounded like he was talking to a small child or a puppy and it made Peter want to scream or punch a wall or cry. He hated people condescending to him. He fucking hated being treated like a child. Like he didn’t know what was best for him. He would fucking cut himself if he wanted to. And he fucking wanted to. He wanted to cut until he had no more blood. 

“Ya” the boy smiled in the same fake way once again. “I’m really fine.” He bit his tongue to keep himself from cursing at the man. Dropping the F bomb while talking to your mentor was a sure way from him to know something was wrong. So instead he would be polite and fake smile and wait till he could carve his skin up once again and see the pretty blood and feel normal for once.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been feeling super out of it recently and having a super hard time with my own mental health so I wanted to take some time to write something short about what depression and anxiety and PTSD actually look like and not the super romanticized version of mental illness. 
> 
> Feedback is appreciated and comments make my day!


End file.
